The Will To Survive
by Andre M. Ward
Summary: This is a tale based on the Modern Warfare 3 'Survival Mode'.
1. Humble Beginnings

**"Humble Beginnings"**

**Jun. 10th - 13:40:06**

**Captain Jack Faux**

**Delta Force**

**Jeddah, Saudi Arabia**

"Shit! We've got missile lock, hang on!" Jones, our pilot, yelled back at us from the cockpit. "Deployin' flares."

I could barely hear him over the endless fusillade of 7.62 mm rounds my partner was raining down from the Black Hawk's door mounted M134 Minigun. I clung to my seat for dear life as Jones wildly maneuvered, the chopper swaying like a boat caught in a thunderstorm.  
In that moment, those few seconds, time seemed to slow down, feeling very much like a dream as I looked around the cabin in a composed daze. The red emergency lights were flashing wildly and an incessant warning siren shrieked throughout the cabin. Then I heard the M134 cease fire, the rotating barrel's low pitched whine whirring down and the chime of empty brass cartridges bouncing off of the floor, and turned in time to see my fellow captain, Ian "Sloth" Cruise, taking cover beside the copter door while the weapon cooled.  
He looked over at me, and I'm sure he gave me a look of some sort, but it was hard to tell. Like me, he wore a ski mask underneath his helmet, outfitted with a pair of protective goggles and a tactical headset. I just shrugged my shoulders. What else could I do?  
My eyes somehow floated to the canopy above him and lingered there while I took in all the miscellaneous gear. I couldn't have been happier with what I saw. _Are those?... Yes. They are._  
By the time Sloth was back on the gun, I had made an executive decision and begun to stand. With the focus of a trapeze artist I balanced my way over to the canopy and pulled down two packs, then quickly clipped one onto my back.  
Jones reported to us again as he fought with the controls,

"Countermeasures depleted. Taking evasi—"

I never heard the rest.  
To Cruise's surprise I had placed my faith elsewhere by sliding open the cabin door, cutting Jones off mid sentence. I didn't even have time to explain, rounds from small arms fire _ping-panging_ all around us. I shoved one of the parachutes into Cruise's arms and wordlessly forced him out of the helicopter.  
Taking a moment I didn't have, I risked a glance back at our dutiful pilot still valiantly delaying the inevitable, cursing as he went. This was not a choice I wanted to make, leaving him like this, but he was pretty messed up after being shot up like that, and if he somehow survived this stunt, we would have to carry him around until he died from blood loss, putting us at risk as well. _I'm sorry, Jones_, I thought but didn't say. Then I jumped out too.  
I spotted Cruise not too far away falling through the air, struggling to get the straps on in the ripping wind. I waited until I saw his chute deploy before I pulled the paracord to release my own.  
About a block away, Jones's Black Hawk took a surface-to-air missile to the midsection and spun out of control. Trailing black smoke, it violently lodged into the side of a skyscraper in a fiery shower of sparks and glass.  
But it wasn't over.  
As we floated to the street below, infantry fired at us from the rooftops. I angrily unholstered my sidearm a Heckler &amp; Koch USP .45 Compact, and returned fire, missing most, if not all my shots. My parachute took a few bullets in the exchange and the torn holes quickened my descent.  
The faith I had in this plan plummeted faster than I did once I got to about fifty feet and started coming in hot, but salvation appeared in the form of a white cargo truck parked on a backstreet, so, seizing the opportunity, I quickly dropped my pistol and, not wanting to be ragdolled across the asphalt, steered for the truck as best I could and braced for impact.  
I slammed hard against its side and fell onto the pavement in a heap. And I mean HARD.  
It took a moment or two for me to get my bearings back; I felt like I was the one who had broken the vehichle's fall.  
Once I did, however, I was immediately on high alert, eyes mostly on the rooftops. I wasted no time unclipping the bullet riddled parachute and quickly making my way over to the area I thought I had dropped _Mr. Dependable_, my .45. After a quick sweep I found it resting precariously on the grates of a storm drain and snatched it up and carefully inspected the damage.  
It was pretty scratched up, and there was a small ding in the slide from the fall and tumble, but the sights weren't off and the crown wasn't chipped, so the gun itself was okay. _Whew, close one_.  
I replaced the clip with a fresh one and jogged to meet Cruise, who I had seen hanging by his chute from an oak tree on my way down.  
He had his hands working behind his head when as I approached, and dropped a good ten feet or so, landing in a crouch to absorb the fall, knife in hand. We clasped forearms and I helped him up.

"You're one crazy sonovabitch, you know that?" He laughed, sliding his blade back into it's sheath on his left arm.

"Yeah." I agreed "What else is new?"

"So where does that put us?"

"I think we're even for now, but we seriously have to move." I answered, looking around.

This place was crawling with hostiles, not to mention the strike team that was probably sent t. track us down. We set off unnoticed down the block, staying low to the cars and improvised barricades, whilst I hailed Captain Noons over the radio. The last time we had seen him, he was leading the remainder of our Delta squad to the secondary landing zone for extraction.

"Danny, come in, it's Faux. Sloth and I are on foot. Our bird went down in the red zone and we need a pick up. Daniel. Daniel, do you copy?"

No response. Silence. I tried again.

"Hailing Eagle Three. Do you copy? Does anyone copy?"

I let nearly a minute tick by before I turned to Cruise and slightly shook my head, then contacted Operational Command.

"Mayday, mayday, this Eagle one. Our bird's been downed behind enemy lines. Pilot is K.I.A. We've lost radio contact with the rest of Eagle, and Russian squads are closing in on our position, request immediate evac."

No luck here either. I was starting to think that maybe a jammer was nearby, but then, over the radio static, came the voice of the U.S. General Commander himself.

"Overlord copies all, Eagle one. Unfortunately, our AC130's cannot enter that airspace, and all ground forces are already engaged. I repeat we cannot get to you. It's just the two of you from here on out. Recommend you conserve ammunition and hold out as long as possible."

"Understood, sir."

"God speed Marines. Overlord out."

Great. "Well, what now?" I wondered aloud.

Sloth, ever the compartmentalizer, commented on our position.

"We need to get off of this road before we get picked off. Let's get us some real estate."

* * *

Author's Note: Yes, this is my own story, but it was meant to be somewhat of an introduction to a good game of Survival. The next time you and a buddy make another try-hard attempt at fifty waves or so, just imagine you guys just got out of some crazy shit and are neck deep in enemy turf. Also, take a dab or two. It helps.  
Stay tuned,

–Andre M. Ward


	2. End of the Road

CPT. Noons: "We've got him, sir. SIGINT located Rhodes at a hotel in Versailles at eight hundred hours this morning."

COL. Hunt: "Finally. This nonsense has gone on for long enough."

CPT. Noons: "Orders sir?"

COL. Hunt: "Assemble your team. Major Ernest Rhodes is a traitor and a criminal. It's high time we showed him how Uncle Sam deals with traitors and criminals."

* * *

**"End of the Road"**

**Jun. 8th - 22:48:12**

**1Lt. Brian Carmichael**

**1st. Bn.. 75th Ranger Regiment**

**Versailles, France**

A man dressed in black from head to toe sat crouched in the shadows, quietly observing the two armed men standing at the edge of the roof with their backs to him, totally unaware as they carried on with their conversation.  
One of them was leaning with his forearms against the railing, staring out over the vast expanse of prestigous buildings and bright lights twinkling underneath the starry sky, listening while his companion talked on.  
Without further ado, Carmichael, the man in the shadows, withdrew his silenced pistol and leveled it at the one enjoying the scenery.  
A gruff voice came in through his earpiece,

"On three, I'll take the one on the left. One...Two...Three."

In the next instant, he softly pulled the trigger and his target lurched forward and slumped over the railing. The other one went down a half-second later, before he even had a half-chance.  
The voice spoke again,

"Roof is clear, move down into the building. Remember, he's in forty-six."

"Copy." Carmichael replied.

A minute or so later, the Ranger was outside of a big box structure with a rusty green door that was arguably more rust than door. He slowly eased it open and moved inside, 9mm leading the way, and found himself in a brightly lit stairwell, where, in his black ACUs, beanie, and football-style facepaint, he was as exposed as a fly in a bowl of milk.  
He peeked over the walled banister and looked down. The stairs ran along the walls of the room as they descended, forming a tall square space in the middle._ This here is a plummet to certain death_, he thought, shaking his head.  
A door from somewhere below opened, accompanied by someone talking and the door closing again. Pinpointing the noise, Carmichael spotted a big, burly man with his jet black hair tied back in a ponytail, and what appeared to be a shotgun slung over his shoulder coming up the stairs from the first floor.  
He had a walkie-talkie up to his mouth,

"...isn't responding. I'm headed there now."

A staticky, barely understandable voice could be heard from the small radio,

"Need backup?"

"Nah, they're probably just dickin' around." He said as he climbed. "Stay with Rhodes, you already know how he gets about this kind of thing. I'll take care of it. Out."

Carmichael focused only on making sure his steps went unheard in comparison to the giant's footsteps thumping closer as he made his way down, then stopped once he was right around the corner of the fourth landing, hiding on the stairs hugging the wall.  
A couple minutes passed before he heard the big man approaching his position. When he turned to climb the next set, Carmichael scared the holy shit out of him by suddenly whipping around the corner and throwing a brotherly arm around his shoulder in a quick embrace. Before the guy knew what was happening, the pistol discharged point blank into his belly.  
Carmichael held his towering victim for a second longer before letting him fall onto the steel stairs beside him. He put one more round into the back of his head, then turned and stopped at a door with a glass window and peered out.

The door overlooked a long hallway with brown carpeting and gray walls. Doors numbered forty through fifty were on both sides, odds on the left, evens on the right, ending at an elevator bank at the end of the hall.  
Carmichael put a hand to his ear,

"Noons, I see the objective. Moving to breach."

"Understood, prepping for exfil."

Carmichael stole one more glance at the giant lying on the stairs before going through the door, creeping down the lush corridor, and slowing to a stop outside of the door to room forty-six, listening. There were muffled voices inside, accompanied by equally muffled laughter. A slight pause, then a weird tune followed by more laughter.  
_They're watching T.V._, he soon realized, setting down his pistol.  
_Ignorance truly is bliss_.  
He withdrew a few small blocks of C-4 plastic explosives from his pocket and adhered them to the door's weak points. He then unclipped an M67 fragmentation hand grenade from his left breast pocket, stood off to the right of the door with it in one hand, remote detonator in the other, and took a deep breath.  
_Showtime_.  
He squeezed the detonation trigger and the door violently caved inward in an earsplitting, cataclysmic blast, sending wood chunks and bits of metal hinges flying through the air at high velocity. Popping the frag into the room, Carmichael waited for the satisfying _boom_ before picking his pistol up and entering.  
The room was smoky and decimated, the walls riddled with lesions varying in depths an sizes. One of the hanging light fixtures somehow survived the explosions and flickered sporadically as it swung back and forth, giving the room a sort of creepy, eerie feeling.  
He thumbed the switch on the pistol grip and a bright ray of LED cut through the dissapating wisps of smoke, then moved about the hotel room checking the face of each cadaver scattered amongst the broken glass and overturned furniture until he heard shuffling and shined the light at the source; someone was crawling from underneath the remains of a bookshelf or entertainment center.  
Carmichael looked in amazement as a fortyish man with a graying crop of hair and pencil thin moustache dragged himself to his feet. _What's it take to kill this guy?_  
He kept his gun trained on the ex-Major while speaking into his headset mic,

"Noons, I'm looking at Rhodes right now."

"He dead?" His gruff-voiced Captain asked.

"Not yet."

"Well, see if you can find out what he knows, but eighty-six him either way. Then get down to the basement level. They're waiting."

"Copy. Out." He said, ending the transmission. His attention back on Rhodes now,

"Captain Noons says hi. You remember him right?"

Rhodes just scoffed, "Fuck you" and spat out a mouthful of blood. There was a deep, oozing gash running from his head down the side of his face.

Carmichael, grinning, shook his head and continued,

"You know, personally, I'd love nothing more than to paint that wall there with your brains and go home, but they need info, so I'm ordered to supress my artistic urges. For now. So let's make this easy, eh? Who'd you sell the intel to?"

After a moment of dignified silence, Carmichael tsk-tsked and shot him in both legs. The former Major cried out in pain before he collapsed like a dropped towel.

"C'mon. If not me then for your country. Do you want the next generation speaking Russian? Cough it up."

"OK, OK", Rhodes relented with his hands up defensively, staring wide-eyed at the enormous combat knife Carmichael had taken out. "It was Moghadam, alright? He offe—"

There was a fleshy _pshkut_ and Carmichael exited the room a few moments later, the razor sharp KA-BAR wiped clean and returned its rightful spot strapped to his leg. He was two steps out in the hallway when an enemy response team in black fatigues burst out of the stairwell guns blazing, forcing him back inside.  
_Nothing Glock can't handle_, Carmichael thought as he holstered his 9mm and pulled out his fallback plan, a fully automatic G18 machine pistol. He reached an arm out and blindly emptied the clip into the hall, evoking a cacaphony of shouts and groans, and reentered the hallway to find the men all on the floor, some squirming in agony. Faster than he thought possible, he expertly slipped a new magazine neatly into the chamber and peppered the four men with a rapid fire_ trut-tut-tut-ut-tut-ut._

"Tangos down." He calmly stated.

Abandoning the stairs, the wiley Lieutenant jogged to the elevators at the end of the hall and mashed the button until the doors slid opened, then stepped inside and pressed the button marked 'B'.  
While he took the opportunity to catch his breath and ready himself for another brush with death, ironically soft and relaxing Muzak played from the elevator's speakers.  
The doors opened back up and he stepped out into a two-level underground parking garage, reporting in,

"I'm at the garage, where are you?"

"Turn around numbnuts." A different, slightly accented voice told him. "Over here."

Off to his right, on the far side of the garage, an engine started and a pair of headlights turned on.  
Carmichael threw a middle finger at the approaching navy blue armored van with the word POLICE emblazoned on both sides in big bold print, and promptly received one in return from out of the driver side window, both meeting in a fist bump as the van eased to a stop.  
The back door swung open and a female officer with a navy blue visor and a shiny badge glistening from the beaded lanyard around her neck hissed, "Quickly, quickly, get in!"  
Without warning, the door to the stairwell adjacent to the elevators smacked against the wall and more black-clad disavowed Shadow Company soldiers poured out into the garage, taking up positions behind parked cars and support columns. Carmichael ducked as a line of bullets ricocheted off the side of the truck by his head.  
Ignoring orders, he held his ground, firing into the masses of now leaderless rebels, taking down one after another after another.  
The driver again,

"Quit fuckin' around and get your ass on board, now! Move! Move!"

Carmichael climbed aboard and slammed the doors closed and the armored van loudly deflected a hailstorm of bullets as it fishtailed into drive, down to the lower level, up an exit ramp, out onto the road.  
Once he saw the swerving GIGN van peeling out of the garage, Captain Noons had given the green light and everything sprung into action, starting with the three U.S. Military Delta Force counter-terrorism units on the roof with him taking the zipline across the street onto the hotel and moving inside, clearing it floor by floor.  
Helicopters circled overheard, RAID and GIGN teams rapelling down and heading down into the garage, and the Compagnies Républicaines de Sécurité, the notorious French police force specialized in crowd control, arrived and surrounded hotel with rows upon rows of officers in full riot gear forming a tight perimeter to ensure no one escaped.  
There were two armored trucks with a huge platform attached to each, and atop these platforms were about seven or eight more CRS officers strapped with full auto FAMAS assault rifles aimed at the enormous glass double doors serving as _Du Regale's_ front entrance.  
After he waved off an EMT, Carmichael was sitting on the rear bumper of the bullet dented GIGN van smoking a cigar with Pierre, the driver, and watching impressive turnout unfold, when he spotted Noons coming out of a huge mobile command center with the female officer that had helped him escape, Inspecteur Lucille Leblanc.

"Just got off the phone with Hunt. We're in Saudi Arabia this time tomorrow. If we let Moghadam go into hiding, we'll have a better shot at finding Vladimir Makarov." Noons explained.

He made note of the two victory cigars and promptly lit one of his own.  
As he was, he turned and spotted one of the Delta squads coming through the hotel's front doors exactly like the Colonel had ordered; no casualties, no prisoners.  
It made its way past the rows of menacing CRS cops, but the leader passed his rifle off to another team member and came toawrd the van after Noons motioned him over.  
The lean, wiry black man arrived in what seemed like a few easy strides and removed his helmet, revealing a full goatee and cornrow braids that went a little past the nape of his neck.

"Jack, you just got reassigned." Noons informed him. "JSOC's letting us borrow you for a little longer, and Hunt wants you spearheading this thing. We leave for Jeddah in the morning."

The marine smiled affably, saying,

"Well... I mean I _guess_ I could help you guys out. Show you guys the ropes, that sort of thing. But since I'm now runnin' this party, can I make a few more invites?"

Noons didn't skip a beat.

"Up to five. As long as they're on board when the plane leaves."

"I gotta make a phone call, be right back." The tough-looking marine said before taking off.

"Who's he?" Pierre asked Noons, who mulled it over before answering.

"Me and Jack go way, way back, before I even enlisted. He's good people. We're the best, but he and his friends are the best of the best and they specialize in the impossible. We'll need them if going to have any shot at killing Moghadam."

* * *

Author's Note: I would like to apologize to my faithul readers for my absence. I have been sorting out some things as of late, on top of wasting a substantial amount of time getting high and playing videogames. However, the things have finally been sorted and the controller, I'm sad to say, has finally been put down. This is now a weekly post, and the TWTS reboot is officially in full effect.  
Stay tuned.

—Andre M. Ward


	3. VIP

**"V.I.P."**

**Jun. 9th - 00:04:32**

**Sgt. Kevin "Boomer" Nguyen**

**Delta Force**

**Fort Bragg, NC**

It was another night up on the observation deck for Boomer, watching yet another one of the marines he'd hand-selected straight out of basic training for the newly formed Onyx Team run the infamous "Flash House" tactical training course.  
Tonight however, offered a small surprise. Where the others had merely passed with flying colors, the marine currently running the course was a true artist indeed. The standard time for the perilous course was two minutes flat, though a few of Delta's known quicksters have managed to make it around one and a half. This kid was hitting a little under sixty seconds.

"Fifty-eight-oh-eight. Not bad, but I've seen better. You can call it quits here, or run it again if you want." Boomer told the rookie, then nodded admirably when she made a twirling motion and took the outside path leading back up to the ladder for a retry.

"Kid's got spunk." Captain Cruise said from behind him as he came over and plopped down in the chair next to him.

Boomer laughed, "Like you wouldn't believe."

Once the trainee was back on the starting platform holding the zip line, she looked over at Boomer, who had three fingers raised high in the air. One at a time, he slowly brought them to zero, clicking the stopwatch right as her feet left the floor. The race was on.

"Jack called," Cruise said, lounging comfortably in the hard metal chair.

Boomer knew what was coming next, so he just asked.

"New mission?"

It was always the case anytime Captain Faux called. Not that he was complaining, it just seemed the guy never gave the phone a ring just to see how you we're doing.

"Yeah," Cruise replied. "He's got some major clearance from somewhere, so this mission is a priority one. Our team is supposed to be ready in twenty minutes to be flown out to France to meet him and the others, then straight to Saudi Arabia from there. Get ready for some super intense jet lag."

"Can't wait. How big's the team?"

"There's five. Three, not counting us."

Boomer thought about this for a second as they watched the rookie clearing rooms of cardboard enemies in the open-roofed warehouse simulation below. Then,

"Kronos."

"That's a given." Cruise agreed. "Who else? Stretch?"

"Mmm... What about Astro? He around?" Boomer asked.

Cruise smiled, saying, "Sorry my friend. He's on the Argentina op with Jayhawk's team. Look's like you gotta settle."

_Fuck, _Boomer thought. He did not want to have to deal with Stretch and his mouth if there was a way around it. Unfortunately, without Astro on base, there wasn't one. He was one of the best rifleman they had ever worked with, and would rather put up with his jabbering than to settle for someone who can't be entirely trusted to make the shot that counts. Stretch's smartass was coming too.  
Cruise then nudged him and nodded to the trainee, who had just dropped the last target and was booking it to the finish. Boomer clicked the stopwatch again as she passed the gray painted line. He raised his eyebrows in amazement at the performance time. 00:55:48. He turned and showed it to Cruise, who let out a low whistle, then stood and adressed the rookie.

"Alright, alright, that's good for now. Leave the guns on the table and come on up here."

To Cruise, as he was sitting back down, "I think we may have our number three."

"No kiddin'. Calsign?"

"Bamma."

* * *

Author's Note: Sorry I'm a little late fore the 420 post. As they say, _Drugs are bad, MmmKay. _The calm before the storm, folks.  
Stay tuned,

-AMW


	4. TWTS: The Other Side

**Five Years Earlier...**

* * *

**"The 'Other Side**"

**Day 4 - 02:13:09**

**Yasir Ahmad**

**Opfor **

Yasir found himself respecting the boss less and less as time went on. Many of his blindly loyal allies hadn't even been informed of the bomb, and instantly perished along with the Americans when it detonated. Yasir truly did appreciate being among the few to be extracted before the bomb went off, but he knew it had a lot to do with Abrahim Moghadam, the boss's second-in-command. Actually, it was the entire reason why he got to babysit the nervous warlord while the others fought to their fiery demise. His loyalty meant nothing; were he not Moghadam's top assassin, he'd probably be lying back there in the radiation with the others.  
It was almost amusing watching the clearly agitated General pace back and forth, unable to contain himself. With all the new found popularity coming in he couldn't really blame the boss for being a little fidgety, especially after the frantic call came in ten minutes ago informing them of the arrival of a small enemy strike team and an attack helicopter making it's way up the mountain.  
As far as Yasir was concerned, Al-Asad was far too careless to deserve any peace of mind. The boss didn't look as nearly as tough as he did when they had arrived on site that evening and he authorized the Ultranationalists to "clear out" all the villagers. Or as tough as was when he had executed a bound and beaten former president on live television a few days before.  
Yasir's mind drifted to how dangerously committed and patriotic he himself had been during the bloody coup, even going as far as to personally plant a boot in Al-Fulani's scared face moments before his live execution. Before pulling the trigger, General Khaled Al-Asad had recited this speech about a great wave of change, and talked about how they were fighting to restore the country back to it's golden age, similar to the struggle that was happening over in Russia. The General spoke of a brighter future. Of redemption. Little did his followers know that the bastard would nuke the very land they were fighting for and everyone in it as soon as it was his turn to take a pause for the cause.  
At any rate, Yasir wasn't worried about the strike team or the helicopter, knowing that they would have to bust through a thick network of heavily armed safe houses filled with those psychotic, trigger-happy Ultranationalits before they could reach the barnyard.  
Still, he didn't want to risk it. He nodded to Ivan, the up-and-coming Ultranationalist soldier partnered with Yasir on Al-Asad's personal security detail, who then withdrew a cell phone and made a call to Sasha Petrov, describing the situation.  
Petrov was a former _Krysha, _an enforcer for the Russian Mafia, who had earned quite the reputation for his unmatched brutality before his eventual arrest during an illegal house raid. The police released him after seventy-two hours, but by that time his organization suspected him of speaking to cops and decided to kill him. They tried to kill two birds with one stone by killing him along with an arms dealer they were planning to rob, but the plan backfired, as the dealer had some friends in high places... with sniper rifles.  
It was an unforeseen massacre that lasted a matter of seconds. After being untied by his subordinates, the seasoned arms dealer, Imran Zakhaev, offered a Petrov a place at his side instead of killing him right there, and he's been Zakhaev's personal body guard or, more accurately, the iron door you had to get through before you could be granted an audience with the head honcho, ever since. Many of the Ultranationalists simply referred to him as _Ruka_. The Arm.  
Ivan was still on the phone with Petrov when the door to the barn suddenly opened and closed. He, Yasir, and Al-Asad briefly exchanged equally confused glances before a bright flash of white light blinded them all. Yasir heard a loud bang, then another as a bullet pierced his shoulder, throwing him to the ground. He had never been shot before. His shoulder felt like it was fire, the sharp pain surging throughout his body like hot needles all the way down his arms and legs, even in his scalp. Hurt like a bitch.  
_So you like surprises, eh? _Yasir thought, crawling for his AK-47 propped against the wall. Whether he liked him or not, he was going to save his boss from the man in the bucket hat beating him to a pulp. The gun was still a few feet away when he heard more people entering the room.  
He froze when someone said,

"Soap, take care of him."

After that, Yasir just rolled over. He knew he wouldn't reach the rifle in time, but there was no way he was going to die getting shot in the back. Besides, his unconscious commander was already being placed in a chair one of them had dragged over. He propped himself up on his elbows as a Russian Loyalist that was with the intruders put a hand on the shoulder of the young soldier aiming at Yasir, then walked forward, saying, "I have always wanted to do this."  
Then the Loyalist raised his leg high in the air, as if he were about to try and crush a steel can.  
_Here it comes_, Yasir thought dreadfully, closing his eyes.

* * *

Though golden rays of sunlight now poured into the barn, it was still blurry when Yasir came to hours later, his mind still in a thick fog of swirling memories as he floated in and out of consciousness_.  
So that's what that feels like_, Yasir thought, addressing the the pulsing headache branching out from the center of his face. He could hear the echo of gunfire and explosions in the distance, some type of war zone.  
He passed out again for some time after that, alerted by voices in the room with him. The first thing he noticed was no longer wearing his shemagh. Yasir's eyes slowly opened and his vision returned, recognized that Petrov's rugged face staring back at him, and felt his rough calloused hand lightly slapping his cheek.

"Ahmad, look at me. Are you alright? Try to stay awake my friend."

Petrov placed an oxygen mask over Yasir's nose and mouth before standing aside and letting a couple of medical officers load Yasir onto a stretcher. Yasir noticed they weren't loading Ivan onto a stretcher; he was getting a body bag instead.  
As the medics carried Yasir out of the room, he looked over and saw General Khaled Al-Asad slumped in a chair with a gaping bullet hole in his forehead.

* * *

The good doctors had Yasir back on his feet after some medical attention, a few painkillers, and two day's rest, in that order. His shoulder was now wrapped in gauze and his arm was in a sling, and he had a thin bandage over the bridge of his broken nose.  
He was leaned against the wall of the basement, holding the photograph of a hit squad known only as 'Bravo Team'.

"I heard they were dressed like us. He tried to run, but they chased him down like animals. Shot himself before they could grab him." Yasir's 'brother' Boris, a hulking bear of an Ultranationalist said, telling Yasir the news about Viktor Zakhaev.  
Even without his armor, Big Boris stood at a whopping seven feet.

"Perhaps it was best move, after what they did to Al-Asad," Yasir pondered. "But I still would not have been able to kill myself. Then again, I probably wouldn't have ran either."

Yasir saw three of the men from the incident at the barn in the picture. Four of them stood in front of a Humvee on some kind of army base, all pointing and laughing and smiling at the camera like they were happy just to be there, to be alive.  
Starting from the left, Yasir made note of the man in the bucket hat who had burst through the barn door, blasting. He had an arm around the shoulders of a bearded man in a baseball cap, who Yassir remembered as the one who ordered the young soldier with the mohawk standing next to him to "Take care' of Yassir. There was a fourth man in the photo Yasir didn't recognize. He was black, with a sleeveless army vest and a light machine gun cradled in his arms like a newborn.

"Any word from Imran?" Yasir asked. The big boss was livid after he finding out about his son and went to personally launch a few nuclear warheads at the U.S. to remind the Americans just exactly who they were dealing with.  
Boris shook his head 'no'. Everyone was in the dark. All the way up to the last remaining big wigs in the chairs upstairs, Vladamir Makarov and Abrahim Moghadam. There was no telling what was happening with the head honcho, but it wasn't looking good.  
The background noise of groans and smacks drew their attention back to Ruka, working over a captive British Special Air Service commando with a studded trench club.  
As it turned out, while Yasir was being airlifted away after the incident at the barn, Petrov's men had forced the intruders into a hasty escape and caught a straggler who stayed behind to cover his buddies. Following a small battle that ensued as they tried to take him down alive, the Ultranationalists brought the lone soldier to Petrov, who specialized in getting answers the hard way.  
The prisoner roared in agony after Petrov raised the deadly bat high in the air and brought crashing down on his left knee like a lumberjack chopping wood.  
It originally started off as an interogation, but it soon became clear that he would die before giving anything up. All they got were a busload of monotone, cheap insults for two long days. He finally reverted to a cold silence after an extensive questioning session in the cargo hold of the plane on the way here to Imran Zakhaev's modest safehouse in the Caucus Mountains.  
Now it was just batting practice. In the end, the man would die in the chair he was tied to, just as the boss had. _Payback's a bitch.  
_Petrov snatched the prisoner's dog tags, inspected them, and tossed them to Yasir before kicking the chair over and motioning for Boris to come finish the job.  
While the big executioner went to quell the poor man's cries of utter agony, Yasir noticed that the dog tags held no useful information whatsoever. Just three letters on the front, three letters on the back, same with both tags. He knew what the first one was;_ SAS_ stood for Special Air Service.  
On the other side was what Yasir couldn't guess, though he'd bet it was what the man was called by his peers.  
_MAC_.

* * *

Author's Note: Took Wednesday off last week to recharge the batteries, and was busy around post time today, so waited for the AM instead. Anyways, hope you enjoyed.  
Stay tuned,  
Andre M. Ward


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